


Crack Me Open

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Situational Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>filling<a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=36436333#t36436333"> this prompt: </a><i>So Jim is of course completely psycho but that doesn't stop him from being painfully in love his Moran. Jim has kidnapped either John or Sherlock and the other has found where Jim's hiding him but he's toying with them and having a stand off of sorts. During this Moran somehow gets really hurt or has some sort of medical emergency which isn't caused by either John or Sherlock and Jim goes to pieces. Like ugly cry, shaking all over, releases who ever he had kidnapped begging for John to help, him falls to pieces. He's so desperate and destroyed John takes pity on him and helps and Sherlock's so shaken by seeing Moriarty so utterly wreaked he doesn't even complain.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack Me Open

When John wakes his head is throbbing, he’s trussed to a ring in the floor, there is blood in his left eye, and Moriarty is smiling. The man looks gleeful, John’s phone against his ear and John’s Browning in his lap. He strokes the barrel with white fingers in a disturbingly lewd fashion, winking at John when he notices the army man watching. “And he’s awake now!” Moriarty runs his nails down the Browning’s handle, tucking it into a film-noir holster just beneath his armpit as he saunters closer. “Would you like to speak to Sherlock, Johnny boy?” he croons, holding the phone to John’s ear.   


“Bunker,” is the first thing John says, and he’s about to add ‘concrete floor’ as the beginning of a list but Moriarty has already taken away the phone. Someone cuffs him on the shoulder with a butt of a rifle. So, not really getting his hands dirty after all. No doubt he’s taken away the Browning just to show he can, because it’s something important and private in John and Sherlock’s relationship.   


Moriarty flops down in the only chair John can see, continuing his playful conversation with Sherlock, sensually stroking long fingers up his thighs. John wonders if it’s for show or not. It probably is. Clever, because it really pisses him off.   


A song breaks through- if John is recognizing it right, and he really hopes he isn’t, it’s a nineties pop tune from the group that made Barbie Girl- Agua or something. The quality is terrible, and it’s painfully upbeat. “You hold on, darling,” Moriarty says airily. “I’ve got a call on the other line. I’m ever so popular, you know.”   


He tucks John’s phone beneath his thigh and slides his own out of his pocket. John’s surprised, actually; it’s a flip phone, inexpensive, not high quality enough to have taken the pictures John and Sherlock had received oh so long ago on the not-really-the-pink-phone phone. It’s lime green.   


“Hello gorgeous,” Moriarty purrs, tongue sliding slowly against his lower lip until its glistening. “As much as I love your voice I hope this is urgent. I’m still in the middle of-” he sits up. His eyes flash, his posture stiffens, his smile falls slack.   


“What happened?” he barks, his free hand clenching the edge of his seat. “Where are you?” The pause is not long but it affects Jim greatly. His hand is shaking, and he clenches it into a fist in his pocket. He seems to have forgotten about John, gaze unfocused as he concentrates solely on the phone pressed against his ear. Jim stands and paces, pushing his hand deeper into his pocket. John’s phone falls to the floor. “ _Where are you?_ Sebastian! I don’t care if he knows, I don’t care if he’s going to run and tell the goddamn prime minister _, where **are**_ _you?_ ”    


He sucks in a shaky breath, stumbling backwards. “Seb? Sebbie? Sebastian? _Sebastian!_ ” John swallows; the screaming panic in Jim’s voice is only an echo of Moriarty’s twisted introduction.   


Jim’s hand is trembling noticeably as he slowly pulls the phone away from his ear; his arm drops to his side, the phone closed in his loose fist. Moriarty seems to have frozen. Jim is not breathing, face white as he stares into space. He falls into a sudden crouch, arms around his legs, face pressed into his knees. John hears a faint ‘fuck,’ chews his lower lip as he watches for change.   


“Boss?”   


The man behind him is probably a smoker, his voice low and gruff. Not bright either, apparently.

Moriarty straightens in one move, eyes shuttered as he straightens his suit out, plucks John’s phone from the ground and drops into his chair. The jumping muscle in his jaw gives Jim away.   


“Sherlock,” Moriarty says in a smooth voice; usual playfulness replaced by poison. “Change of plans.”   


\-------   


John has been steadily working on twisting the ropes off his wrists. The man behind him doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. He’s probably watching Jim Moriarty, probably nervous. John certainly would be, if that wreck was his criminal mastermind of a boss.   


Jim is still arguing with Sherlock. He keeps glancing at John; John wonders if the man is drawing parallels between their relationships. Jim Moriarty’s version of Sherlock’s John Watson sounds like something terrifying. John wonders what Sherlock would look like in this situation. He thinks Sherlock would be stronger. Maybe he means less. Maybe Jim only has this ‘Sebastian.’ He’s never thought of it before, not seriously, but Sherlock has _people_. Jim Moriarty apparently only has subordinates. Connections. Things.   


But Sherlock’s found Moriarty’s weak point, been _given_ it, and John has no doubt he’s trying to exploit it. Sherlock’s pushing Moriarty, and that seems... not very smart. Jim has nothing to lose but Sebastian.   


“Find him,” the man grits through his teeth, something wild in his eyes where they’re fixed on John’s calm face, knuckles white around John’s phone. “Find him or I will fucking _shoot_ Doctor Watson in the head and you will _never_ see him again, do you understand?”   


John doesn’t know what Sherlock says but he can guess the tone: snide, careless, triumphant, mocking.

Moriarty’s face twists with fury. Jim’s chest caves. He looks like he can’t breathe. “ **This is not a fucking game!** ” The phone shatters when Jim hurtles it across the floor, glass and plastic glittering under the double lights.   


He stares at the fragments, terror slackening his features. Jim’s hands are shaking again when he draws the acidic phone from his pocket. He doesn’t seem to consider that using his own phone will make it that much easier to track him, frantically dialling for Sherlock.   


\---------------   


“If he dies I will hunt every last one of you down. I will kill your lover, I will kill your brother, I will kill your _policeman_ , do you understand me?!”   


John jerks back awake. His hands have fallen asleep. He feels vague, time blurring into Jim’s solitary panic. Apparently the grunt is gone. He can’t imagine Moriarty letting anyone see him this way.

Jim’s suit jacket is gone. His tie is loose, draped around his neck. His sleeves are rolled up; his shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, undershirt stained with sweat. Time has worn him down to a single point of desperation.   


The man jumps to his feet with a shout, a flurry of disjointed questions passing his lips. “How is he? Is he bleeding? Is he awake? Is he- Shut _up_ \- _is he alive?_ ”   


It turns out the answers are something are something like ‘not well,’ ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘barely,’ because Jim goes very still except for the violent tremor that starts up again in his hand.   


He stands there for a moment, breathing through his mouth, lashes fluttering as he tries to restrain what looks suspiciously like tears. John wonders vaguely if Jim was every allowed to cry as a child. Probably not.   


Jim stumbles over, holds the phone to John’s ear with his left hand, his right shaking as he presses the Browning barrel against the doctor’s chest, staring at him with wide eyes. “Tell him. _Tell_ him how to **fix it _._** _Tell him!_ ”   


It’s strange.   


He’s always thought of Jim Moriarty as a highly emotional creature. Their first meeting had Moriarty personally strapping him into an explosive jacket, giddy and bright like a man on amphetamines- and hell, maybe he had been. Maybe he is. He’s certainly a psychopath, as much as John can tell; as an army medic he had to deal with the other soldiers in a personal and private capacity that meant he sometimes had to act as a psychologist as best as he could- he’d brushed up on basic classifications. He couldn’t certify Moriarty, but he fit the profile John did remember quite well.   


Except now, he didn’t. Lack of remorse? Insincerity? Grandiose sense of self-worth? Heavy inclination for manipulation? _Impulsiveness?_ Yes, sure, of course, all of those and more. (Poor behavioural control, socially deviant lifestyle, etc.)   


Emotionally shallow? Impersonal, trivial sex life? Pathologic egocentricity, sure, but incapacity for love? He would’ve believed it if he hadn’t been sitting here, watching the man shake apart.

John sighs quietly and begins to speak.   


\--------------------   


The room has been uncomfortable silent since John talked Sherlock through the basic patch job. It only feels more oppressive when Sherlock walks in, steps barely wavering despite the compact, broad-shouldered man in his arms. He walks straight to John, apparently using the body as a shield. John tells him off softly, waiting impatiently until Sherlock’s done releasing his bonds.   


Sherlock tries to pull him up by the arm. John tugs out of his grip, instead detouring his attention to the red-stained bandages that apparently used to be the unconscious man’s shirt.   


He’s been shot in the shoulder; the parallelism hurts his head.   


“John,” Sherlock hisses, going for another grab. John glares at him.   


“John, this _isn’t_ the time."   


“Shut up, Sherlock,” he snaps back. They’re arguing under their breath but that doesn’t mean Jim can’t guess the gist of their conversation.   


He doesn’t care what Sherlock has to say, really. He already has a good idea of what it’s going to be and he really doesn’t want to hear it.   


He’s just watched the world’s most frightening man collapse into a gibbering, trembling shadow. Nobody’s helped Jim in his life; nobody’s loved him but this Sebastian, probably.   


If Jim loses Sebastian, there will be nothing left to hold Moriarty back. Right now ‘consulting criminal’ is a game to him, the world a plaything. If Jim loses the only precious thing in his life, it won’t be a game, it’ll be murder. Moriarty with raze the world. Oddly enough, John doesn’t consider that the worst of it. He thinks about the image of little Jimmy Moriarty instead, bare feet wet as he stares into a pool and plots to make Carl Powers just stop hurting him. To make his parents stop hurting him. To make the world stop hurting him.    


Jim Moriarty might do anything to make it all stop from hurting. He might do everything. But apparently, despite the way it’s practically made to tear your heart straight out of your chest, he can’t stop loving.   


Jim’s standing as far away from his lover’s perfectly still figure as he can bear, eyes wide and alive as he watches John Watson and Sherlock Holmes work together, unwrapping Sherlock’s shoddy, quick work, the one pressing on the man’s wounds as the other checks for fractures, breaks and internal bleeding.   


John darts a glance at Jim under Sherlock’s arm. He needs some pliers, a needle and thread and some antiseptic at the bare minimum. He’s not sure he can keep the man alive that much longer without a blood transfusion.Seawater might be able to keep his pH and blood pressure up, but the depleted haemoglobin means less oxygen, and less oxygen means a heightened possibility of permanent brain damage.   


Luckily there’s alcohol on hand, at least. Sherlock keeps his eyes on Moriarty as he moves around the man to snatch the bottle of vodka snug against the legs of the chair. Feline eyes flicker to the shards of John’s phone; Sherlock narrows his eyes but smirks anyway, circling back.   


John already has a headache from the blow that got him here, but now his ears are ringing. It’s not the stress, stress he can deal with. It’s been a long time since he’s been around this much heavy emotion. Honestly it’s starting to remind him of Harry.   


He licks his lips, mulling it over. Sherlock crouches very closely, looking a little feral. John ignores him.    


“He needs to go to the hospital.”   


“No,” Jim barks, fingers white around the Browning. John doesn’t wonder at it. While he very much doubts Moriarty is anywhere in government listings, the same might not be true for the henchman of such a high-class criminal. He’s probably the personal deliverer of Moriarty’s most important messages. The only man Moriarty trusts. The only man Jim loves.   


It more or less always comes back to the same thing.   


“He needs a blood transfusion,” John explains calmly.   


“ **No**! ...No. I can’t, I _can’t_.” The sight of Jim’s eyes blurred and red with tears of terror does something very strange to John. He leaves Sherlock and moves to face the shorter man, lightly pressing a hand against his arm. Jim flinches back, wide eyes staring at Sebastian’s unmoving form without blinking. His hands are still shaking violently.   


Jim makes a sharp, high-pitched sound when John wraps a hand around his, slowly unwinding his fingers away from the gun. Jim startles at the sound of metal clattering against concrete. John kicks the Browning towards Sherlock, taking a focusing breath as he forces the other man to meet his eye. “He _need_ to go to a hospital.”   


“No, no, no, he can’t, they’ll take him _away_ , they’ll lock him up, you _can’t, I **need** him._”   


“Moriarty.” He pauses, licks his lips. The name feels strange in his mouth, all wrong for this shaking wreck. “Jim.”   


The man flinches again, looking so small.   


“He needs a transfusion.”   


Jim Moriarty is scratching at his arm, big, bare eyes staring fearfully. “I- I can’t, I’m wrong _,_ I’m all wrong for him, I’m _wrong._ ”   


There’s something terrifyingly inspiring about the open desperation in the man’s pallid face.   


“John.”   


He turns to look at Sherlock. Two scratched-up tags dangle from long white fingers, glinting in the light. “Type A negative.”   


John sighs, glancing back at the strange, emotional child in Moriarty’s body. “You’re an AB+, I bet,” he snorts quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It would just figure.” He waves away the amusing thought that Sherlock probably is, also, and only flushes lightly when his flatmate’s voice echoes around the large space.   


“I’m a B positive, _actually_ ,” and he sounds so haughty John smiles. Jim flinches back, holding his hand pressed against his chest as though it’s been injured, staggering back on shaking legs before circumventing the doctor to crouch at Sebastian’s head, ignoring Sherlock’s cold gaze to press his hands againsthis subordinate’s neck, eyes fluttering shut as he concentrates on the faint pulse beneath tanned skin.   


A sleight of hand has Jim slowly slumping over, a thin needle peering out from Sherlock’s cuff. He watches dispassionately as the criminal mastermind slows and stops.   


“Sherlock.”   


He glances up at the hard voice, surprised by the closed expression on John’s face.   


“John?”   


“We’ll do it ourselves. We’ll leave them here. That man,” and he inclines his head towards Sebastian, “will survive. You know there’s no victory in defeating him when he’s like _this_.” He’s not defending Moriarty because he’s defending this tenuous essence, this creature that falls apart without his lover- _Jim_.   


Luckily John can donate. Sherlock has enough practical anatomical knowledge to keep them sorted if John gets too dizzy.   


\------   


They make it back to Baker Street before midday; John is dirty and exhausted and Sherlock is barely better, stone-faced and angry as he walks beside him. They go to sleep curled up together and he wonders what Sherlock would look like in the same situation. Thinking back to those explosives, that pool, he wonders if he already knows.   


He wonders if Sherlock would be happy to know that, emotionally at least, he’s far stronger than Moriarty.   


Meanwhile, John hurts for Jim.


End file.
